


change of heart

by rosewitchx



Category: Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Canon-Typical Violence, Dimension Travel, Father-Son Relationship, Groundhog Day, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, Multi, Odin (Marvel)'s A+ Parenting, One Shot Collection, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Secret Identity, Soulmates, Time Loop, Trauma, Underage Drinking, olivia sucks in my head i swear this all has a logical explanation, they're sad lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 22:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18353402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewitchx/pseuds/rosewitchx
Summary: a collection of spider-verse related stories (mostly spider ocs).





	1. i never look for conflict for the thrill

**Author's Note:**

> lol so i decided i'm just gonna go NUTS and post all the spider oc things ive written here.  
> ONE:  
> it’s always been about him.  
> he can’t leave.  
> “hi,” he says, through the knot in his throat. “it’s okay, i’ll wait.”  
> or, an alternate spider-man loops through all possible outcomes.  
> (originally posted on 2019-01-02)  
> james and charles belong to [my dearest baby sis el](https://twitter.com/spxdrgwxn). a lot of spiders in these belong to her, actually.

in another universe, rains falls heavier. everything looks sepia and everything is dulled.

in another universe, things happen in different ways, over and over again.

in another universe...

 

**i. a world in which charles and james never meet.**

spider-man gets slammed into a wall. there’s a gun under his chin and he doesn’t want to move anymore. his every molecule hurts, like he’s made out of shattered glass.

spider-man,” mr. fisk bites out, inches from his face. the room is too dark, as always, to really see him, see his face. not to mention the dark mask that covered most of his face. “ready to stop causing me troubles?”

“i do dream of you when i sleep at night,” spider-man jokes. it wasn’t a joke. often times he’d dreamed of the man behind the mask, the mysterious eyes that always haunted him. the delicate hands that had once broken every finger in his right hand, one by one. he dreams of pulling at his dark hair, feeling his beard tickle against his body, those charming lips twisted into a grin as they came closer to his and

 _too real,_ spidey thought. _never happening._

“that’s awfully romantic, spider,” and mr. fisk pulls at the safety, and spider-man’s every sense yells **_R U N_ **at him but he doesn’t move an inch. “but it’s never going to happen.”

the gunshot rings true through the small apartment.

 

 

 

**ii. a world in which james bleeds out.**

“how did you do that? the card trick at the end.”

the man lingers around at the park, even after the crowd has dispersed. charles notices, of course; he always notices everything. he dresses nicer than most and his smile is a bit dazzling, if not fake, but the curiosity in his eyes is genuine.

so, of course, charles leans against the makeshift table and smiles, gently. wary. this man feels a lot more dangerous than it should. sets him on edge. “a magician never reveals his secrets, sir.”

“plenty of magicians have revealed their trade to me,” the man retorts. “but not one did it quite like you.”

“well then, a _good_ magician never reveals his secrets. is that better?”

the man laughs, and it rings through the air clean, jovial. it makes charles feel a bit less on edge.

the man’s name is james, and he invites him for a drink. he’d quite enjoyed the show, he says. maybe they get too tipsy. maybe james closes his own maybe-illegal bar for the night. maybe charles spends the night at james’. maybe they learn something new about themselves.

or something they thought to be new.

eventually james would move in with charles. eventually charles would come home battered, broken, late at night, fixing himself in the bathroom, trying his damnedest not to wake james up. eventually james would have to leave town for days at a time, for business.

eventually they’d fall in love.

and eventually, spider-man would be in mr. fisk’s mercy, when a stray punch would break spidey’s nose and leave him gasping for air.

“fuck,” he grunts. he barely has any time to react at all before he’s being kicked into the ground.

“fucking idiot,” mr. fisk hisses. “you broke my father’s desk. he’s gonna kill me now.“

“maybe tell mr. wilson to stop fucking putting his _desk_ in the middle of our fights. this is, what, the third desk i’ve kicked into dust? about time he learns.”

“no time for quipping?”

“i wanna quip my fist into your face.”

“you’re breaking my heart. you’re also breathing in a funny way. don’t choke! wait, actually do choke.”

“fuck you.” spider-man lungs forward. his fist collides with mr. fisk’s jaw. “i wanna see your face. i don’t know why. i wanna see if you’re as punchable as you look.”

“well _i_ wanna see yours so i can see the look on your face when i fucking break your neck.”

spider-man gets slammed into a wall. there’s a gun under his chin and he doesn’t want to move anymore. his every molecule hurts, like he’s made out of shattered glass.

fisk’s hand reaches out for his mask. no. no. **_m o v e._ **and spidey doesn’t move. he can’t. it’s all so. heavy. slow motion. stuck in limbo. he can’t possibly move.

fisk drops the mask.

and then the strangest thing happens.

fisk’s tranquil expression turns into one of confused betrayal.

he steps back and looks at the mask.

the spider doesn’t understand, not really, until—

“charles, what the fuck?”

and then it hits him.

“ _james._ ” it comes out exhausted, broken, like the whole building has fallen on top of him and he can’t get up. “god fucking damn it. _james._ ”

james fisk. of course.

the one person he hadn’t ever considered.

“i— _you’re_ spider-man. what the fuck. god, what the fuck. oh i’m dead. we’re dead. we’re fucking burnt toast. my father’s going to kill us. shit. _fuck,_ charles.”

the moment quietens. charles manages to stand up again, lean next to james in silence.

“you broke my dad’s desk,” james says.

“yeah,” charles says.

“three times.”

“yup.”

“why didn’t you— why didn’t you say anything? god, charles. i thought— you trusted me.”

“i never wanted you to worry,” charles barely whispers. “i wanted to keep you safe.” _i’ve been fighting you the whole time for you._

“oh.”

charles’ fingers intertwine with james’, then. in that moment they’re not fisk or spider-man. they’re just… themselves. alone together.

“i’m sorry i never told you,” james says. he hides his face within charles’ shoulder. his suit tickles his face. everything hurts.

charles sighs. “i’m sorry too.”

charles doesn’t know what they’ll do. he’ll figure it out as it happens, he guesses. they always do. they have time. they can get through this. they can. they _have_ to.

but they don’t have time. not at all.

james feels it as charles tenses up and immediately stands up, through the pain. “someone’s coming,” he says, in a rush. “it’s—“

no time. he pushes james behind him just as the door breaks down. a massive figure walks through it, escorted by a sea of guards. **_run run R U N !_ **

charles remains still. “mister fisk,” he says. james pretends he doesn’t notice the way his voice wavers so slightly. “fancy seeing you here.”

it crosses james’ mind that charles isn’t wearing his mask. fuck.

“i’d say it’s a pleasure but it really isn’t.”

“is this really the time for this,” james hisses.

“he’s still a mafia leader, love.”

“james,” wilson fisk says. his voice sends chills down their backs. charles sees a soldier stand straighter. “do you know who spider-man here is?”

james looks at charles.

he breathes in.

“father,” he says. “father, this is— this is charles. the man i’ve been telling you about.”

“you didn’t mention your _lover_ was spider-man.”

“he didn’t know,” charles jumps in, as always, the big idiot. “he didn’t know. i swear he didn’t know.” _don’t hurt him,_ he wants to scream.

wilson fisk raises his gun. “goodbye, spider-man.”

“dad, please—“

this is fine, charles supposes. if he dies, then at least james will get a second chance. if he doesn’t, well, charles is still willing to take a bullet for james, he’ll heal, he’ll be fine. he’d run forever from fisk if it meant a safe james.

the gunshot rings true through the penthouse.

charles falls to the ground, james on top of him, and he’s shaking.

there’s a bullet hole in james’ chest, and he’s coughing and that’s not a good sign and his whole world is crumbing and james is an idiot—

“james,” he breathes out, but james is standing up, standing up and everyone takes aim at them and wilson fisk would really kill his own son if it meant taking down spider-man. and james is pushing him towards the window. charles notices, he always does, but he’s too busy trying to dodge the bullets and keeping james alive to stop him.

they’re at the edge of the window, sheltered by a bookcase that won’t last nearly long enough, when james pushes charles’ mask into his hands. “leave,” he chokes out. “leave now.”

“i’m not leaving you,” charles says. “come on, we— we can get gwendolyn, she can help—“

“no,” james says, “i won’t make it. leave me. please. it’s okay, charlie. i’ll be fine. i promise i’ll be fine. i’ll talk to him. just—“

“no, no, i’m not _leaving_ you, not like this—“

james pulls him in for a kiss. it tastes like blood. he feels lightheaded. “leave,” he says a last time. pushes the mask into his hands and shoves him out the window, into a fall too high for anyone not charles.

and then a shower of bullets rains through the penthouse.

the day after, it is stated that the man behind the spider-man alias is responsible for the death of james fisk.

the day after, charles cries and screams and tears his apartment down into pieces. everything smells like him. everything _is_ him. he can’t stand it.

there was a ring pushed into his hands next to the mask.

and if you see charles or spider-man after that, a man with a silver ring on his right hand, you might think him a youth in love, or a poor young widow, and you’d be correct. what a poor soul, you might think of him.

you’d be absolutely correct.

 

 

 

**iii. a world in which spider-man seeks revenge.**

there’s a gun to fisk’s head. he’s knocked out, unconscious, and yet charles feels repulsed. disgusted. horrified.

“this is for james,” spider-man spits out.

he pulls the trigger and later, goes visit james at the graveyard.

 

 

 

**iv. a world in which they’re a power couple.**

“i can’t believe i just did that,” james says. he drops the gun and lets it clatter on the floor. it’s cold in the penthouse, way too cold. or maybe it’s just charles, and the blood loss. yeah. the blood loss.

“not to scare you or anything babe but i might be at risk here.”

“oh— shit.”

james patches his stab wounds next to his father’s corpse. god _that’s_ comforting. he _loves that._ fuck wilson.

later, they talk.

“If— if we’re gonna keep seeing each other you… you can’t keep the mafia going. it hurts everyone.”

“i guess that’s fair. god, i love you too much. this is manipulative.”

“it’s because i love you too, jimbo.”

“if you call me jimbo again you’re dead, charlie.”

“alright jimmy.”

“jesus christ.” but the laughter bubbling behind his lungs is worth everything. he wipes off the blood from his face as charlie pulls him in for a kiss.

“your beard’s all itchy,” charles laughs.

“i’ll shave it over my dead body, dear.”

 

 

 

**v. a world in which james isn’t home.**

“so what’s your full name,” asks a very drunk charles. “so i can _say_ it… whenever i wanna.”

james laughs. he likes laughing. “james fff”— wait.

he can’t say that.

he’s not a fisk anymore. hasn’t been for months. hasn’t been since he’d come home to locked doors and suitcases on the porch.

“fffff” but what does he say instead?

he doesn’t know.

 _play dumb_ . “james flirt,” he says. _not that dumb._

charles pouts at him. he sticks his tongue out and blows it. “no way,” he says.

“fine. it’s james fuck.”

“quit trickin’ me…”

charles would then spend the rest of the evening trying to guess his name.

“james francis.”

“nope.”

“james… frair.”

“no. what kinda name is frair anyway?”

“a _sick_ name. james franco.”

“nah.”

charles only finds out months later, when he’s on wilson fisk’s chokehold. “you know,” he says, “you remind me of my son. always a fool.”

and it hits him. like an iron fist. “james fisk,” he chokes out. _holy shit._

the disgraced son of wilson fisk, disowned after leaving the family business. holy fucking shit.

the man he’s been sleeping next to for almost a year is the son of his nemesis.

and fisk is startled, yes, but then it feels like his grip is stronger, and black dots swim in his vision: “so _spider-man_ is the man my son left us for.”

charles doesn’t come home.

 

 

 

**vi. a world in which charles finds out.**

“i know about you being fisk’s son,” charles sobs out, through the pain, as james rethreads the needle. “i know what he did to you, and i know so many things and i've seen so much horrible crap these past few years, and i always come home late and i don't want you to worry, babe i’m sorry i know, but i don't want to endanger you and my job is just so dangerous i'm always scared someone's gonna find out and hurt you and—“

and james is looking at him dumbfounded, shocked. confused. “dangerous? charlie, darling, i thought— aren’t you— a street… magician…”

charles stares at him like he’s an idiot. he puts down spider-man’s mask and just stares at him.

“what?”

 

 

 

**vii. a world in which james is tired.**

james can’t move.

he’s trapped in a limbo, stuck in the motions. wake up. follow orders. go to bed. for twenty-something years of his life, that’s been it. stuck in the motions. james can’t move.

he’d thought _this is it._ he’d thought there was no other option. one day, he’d marry a girl he didn’t love, have children he didn’t want, always following orders, stuck in the motions. james can’t move.

but then he’s walking down a park, decidedly following orders ( _the maggia will show up here. you have to take down the eldest._ ) when the strangest thing happens.

there’s a crowd of children and adults alike, all around a young man. he flips through card tricks and pulling animals out of hats, all things he’s seen before millions of times. but he does it with such passion, his eyes glow joyful, and that’s how a man that _moves_ looks.

and james wants that. more desperately than anything he’s ever needed.

( _don’t talk to anyone._ ) “how did you do that?” ( _don’t get attached._ ) “the card trick at the end.”

he lingers back after everyone’s gone. the magician looks at him, regarding him, almost as if he _knows who he is—_ reading him open like he’s the daily bugle—

_this was a mistake._

but the man just leans against his table and smiles, a look as natural as the way his hands shuffle the deck. “a magician never reveals his secrets, sir.”

“plenty of magicians have revealed their trade to me,” james can’t help but retort, seeking the thrill of the answer he might never get. “but not one did it quite like you.”

_no one looks free like you._

the man squints at james. far away, he glimpses the eldest maggia walking away from the plaza. james doesn’t move away from the man’a gaze (it’s the warmest he’s ever felt). “well then, a _good_ magician never reveals his secrets. is that better?”

and james can’t help but laugh.

trapped in a limbo, someone reaches a hand towards him.

 

 

 

**viii. a world between worlds.**

charles enters a bar so familiar yet so foreign it might as well be new.

“welcome,” the man behind the bar says. he doesn’t turn towards him, but charles can already picture his gentle smile. “sorry, i’m a bit busy, but i’ll help you once i’m done, if you can wait out just a moment.”

his voice he knows like the back of his hand. he reaches out towards him, but quickly stops himself.

_how many times have i done this already?_

he wants to turn back. he wants to never meet him, save himself from the heartbreak; just another battle in a penthouse, no attachments. but he knows he’ll be back here before he knows it.

a timeloop. no matter how hard he tries, if he dies he’s back in square one. it’s james; it’s always been about him. he dies at his hands, or he watches him bleed out, or he’s the one dying for him. it’s always been about james. trapped in a limbo, stuck in the motions. trying his best to save his best friend. his lover. his james.

it’s always been about him.

he can’t leave.

“hi,” he says, through the knot in his throat. “it’s okay, i’ll wait.”

and james turns around to glance him a smile. and charles’ heart skips a bit.

he sits down and he waits.

he’d wait for a thousand lifetimes for james.

 

in another universe, james and charles hold each other close.


	2. worse than nicotine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWO:  
> a continuation of the last one, in which there's some interesting developments with some creatures from out there.
> 
> (originally written on jan 16 2019)

he’s acting weird when he gets home. james wouldn’t have paid it much attention, not at first, if it werent for the fact that the second he opens the window to their tiny, tiny apartment, he throws himself on james’ arms and kisses him. 

james’ mind goes blank for a moment before he smiles and kisses back. “what’s this all about?,” he mutters against his lips. 

“just happy to see you,” charlie replies. he leans his whole body against james and james laughs. 

“oh,” is all james says. he pulls him into the room and closes the window. 

 

later, at night, james sleeps blissfully. charles doesn’t, but he guesses that’s normal, being spider-man and all that. 

(there’s a nagging feeling at the back of his head. something’s wrong. he’s probably being dramatic.)

 

james catches charles as he’s leaping out the next day. “new suit?,” he asks. it’s all sleek blacks, glossy; a strange material he’s never seen before. 

charles leans against the windowsill. “it’s better for the night,” he says. “good for sneaking around. you know, the stealth.”

“the stealth”, james repeats, raising an eyebrow. “since when do you care about stealth? you wear a  _ top hat  _ with your suit, love.”

charles shrugs, kisses him goodbye, says a “see you for dinner, honey,” and jumps off. james watches as he swings away. 

(a strange feeling, again. he thinks it through.)

(he tasted like blood, james realizes.)

 

for dinner. dinner. 

james waits. he waits and waits and waits. 

three hours. 

charles is never this late. he’d be mad if he wasn’t so worried. 

 

charles comes into the house at two in the morning, laughing. james jerks up from the couch. the food has gone cold hours ago. 

“i ate out,” charles says, nonchalant. “you shouldn’t have waited, darling.”

“where were you? i was so worried.” james frowns, but charlie just shrugs it away, a hand resting on his face. 

“busy,” is all he says. he leans in for a kiss and goes straight into the shower. 

(but he smells like gwendolyn’s perfume.)

 

there’s something  _ wrong  _ with charles. 

he doesn’t know  _ what _ it is. but there just _ is  _ and it’s breaking james. 

it’s the little things. like how he won’t hold open the door for him anymore, or that god-awful suit he  _ swears  _ he saw crawl out of charlie’s body the other day, or how he’s constantly stinking of blood. he doesn’t know what’s going on but he doesn’t like it one bit. 

he cleans glass cups at the bar, thinking. whatever is going on, he’s going to  **Deal With It** . because he might’ve been disowned and he might be a gay fucking idiot in love with his former nemesis, but james is  _ still  _ a fisk, and he’s not going to lose what’s his. 

 

he’s been planning to pay a visit to gwendolyn, but he doesn’t have to; she shows up at their doorstep a week after, holding her purse between her arms. 

“hello, james,” she says. she kisses him on the cheek as she comes in. 

he makes her some coffee. outside, the sun is setting. “what brings you here?”

“it’s charlie,” she starts. she looks at him like she’s afraid. her perfume reeks into the apartment. “i’m— there’s something  _ wrong  _ with him, i think.”

“hmm.”

she’s looking at him, but there’s something else on her mind. “he came home the other day,” she says. “he— i think he was drunk. i’m not sure, i’ve never seen anything like that. he moved with a weird swagger and talked like he owned the place, and— oh god, please don’t think i’ve done anything with him! i just— i know you two have… something going on.”

she can’t bring herself to say it. it’s okay. james understands. his hands curl into fists. 

“gwen, dear,” he says. “get to the point.”

“okay, uh… i think he’s sick. i think he has a parasite.”

she explains: charles had a fever. charles leaked blood from his lips. charles hated her fireplace. charles tried to… tried to eat raw chicken (james blinks at this). he even broke gwen’s mirror! 

“and you know, i work at oscorp, and they’ve been researching these  _ things  _ that came from san francisco a while ago, they escaped some facility, i forget the details. and i just— it felt too familiar, you see, and… i think charlie has one of the missing  _ things  _ inside him.”

 

“charlie, honey, can we talk?”

james is nervous. he’s  _ really  _ nervous. he doesn’t know why. charles is leaning on the counter, a glass of milkshake on his hand, and looking at him like he’s—

like he’s planning on ending him in two seconds. there’s a darkness in his eyes, a coldness in his smile, that he’s only ever seen in his father, and  _ wow that’s a comparison he never expected to make.  _

“yes, james?”

_ say it.  _ “gwendolyn came earlier today.”

charles’ gaze grows colder. “she did,” he says. it’s not a question, james knows. 

“she… she talked to me. about you.”

“and?”

“she said you’re sick, dear. you have a parasite.”

charles doesn’t react, not for a moment. james starts to think maybe he didn’t hear him, but then charles  _ chuckles  _ and says, “ _ like  _ **_v_ ** _ could ever be a parasite. _ ”

chills run down james’ back. like the fucking stare wasn’t heart-stopping already. “v?  _ you named it? _ ”

“ _ he named himself. _ ” black tendrils swim within his boyfriend’s veins. they push through his skin and make themselves at home at his hand; charles squeezes against them. james wants to throw up. 

“babe— sweetheart, no, we—“ he stumbles with his own tongue. how could this even happen? “no, charlie, darling, you’re  _ sick,  _ that thing’s going to kill you.”

“oh,” charlie says. “oh.  _ i see how it is. _ ”

this went into the wrong direction, james sees now. 

“what?”

“ _ you’re just  _ **_jealous_ ** _ of us. _ ”

 

_ there’s a thick darkness all around him.  _

_ “where am i?,” he pleads. it’s so cold. it’s so dark. he’s always hated that, the cold, the dark; ever since getting bitten, it’s been worse and worse. “where am i, please?” _

**_you’re with us now,_ ** _ a voice says.  _

_ “please let me go,” he whimpers. he doesn’t know how he got here. he doesn’t know where he is. it’s so cold. it’s so fucking cold. he doesn’t know where james is.  _

**_cooperate,_ ** _ the voice says,  _ **_and you might just survive. you might even like this,_ ** _ it adds, mockingly.  _

_ “i have to go, please let me go,” he cries anyway. it’s so cold. he can feel something coursing through his body, something otherworldly, and he doesn’t know how to stop it; he can feel it crawling into his lungs, seeing his every memory. “please. get out of my head.” _

**_i can give you power,_ ** _ the voice then says.  _ **_power to protect the one you love._ **

_ “i have power on my own, just let me go, please!” _

**_do you? you can’t even stop me. you_ ** **need** **_me._ **

_ “please.” _

**_you’ll see, spider. we’re better as one._ **

 

james stands by the window, watching his partner rampage off into the distance. 

he swears to FUCK, once this whole mess is over, charlie is gonna get DESTROYED. 

 

james waits on top of their building. he waits, silent. 

charles gets home that day, stalking the place like he’s hunting for someone. “ _ james, _ ” he chokes out, struggling for control. “ _ james, help. _ ”

james is (shaking violently) as calm as he can be, but he stands his ground. “stay back, darling.”

“ _ james, i don’t— i can’t get  _ **_him_ ** _ off— _ “

“it’s okay, charlie.” james takes a deep breath and readjusts the stolen flamethrower. “i’ve got you.”

 

the symbiote, as gwen put it, squirms and twists and tries not to fall apart under the flames. when it finally,  _ finally  _ comes undone, ashes spread thin and dissolved, james allows himself to let go of the breath he’d been holding.

charles is out cold on the floor. james tries shaking him awake, “come on babe, come on.”

finally, he stirs, groaning. he barely opens his eyes, looks at james, and moans. “jamie?”

and james might actually cry. he holds his hand and leans in for a kiss, laughing. “dumbass,” he calls him. 

“everything hurts,” charles whimpers. 

“you had a monster up your ass, what did you expect?”

“fuck, i sure did. gh.” he closes his eyes. “i’m an idiot.”

“already knew that.”

 

they sleep soundly that night. 

 

james wakes up with a start, a few nights later. charles isn’t there, already recovered from his injuries. it’s a good thing he isn’t there, too. 

james tries to go back to sleep. he doesn’t get any; all he sees, in the end, is his world consumed by inky, dark beings, and him going back to being alone in the world. 

god, it’s a good thing charlie isn’t there. 


	3. show must go on

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THREE:  
> a very sad peter makes a strange friend.
> 
> (originally written on feb 3rd 2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this peter is nicknamed maybe-pete and basically everyone he ever loved died. he belongs to my dearest baby sister el.  
> the other spider is mailmain and hes my son respect him please.

**first:**

 

peter doesn’t think much of it when he hears footsteps on the kitchen tile. they’re hesitant, slow; it’s not like he gives a shit anyway. he stirs the glass of whiskey with his index finger, absentmindedly, and doesn’t react when a blue gloved hand places a letter in front of him.

“who are you,” is all he says. he glances up: there’s a masked person, in a suit that looks like his once did, yellow lenses glowing at him. they don’t reply, just shrug, adjust their black hoodie, and in a blink they’ve vanished.

peter would be certain he hallucinated him if it weren’t for the invite on his table:

_ spider-verse meeting. _

 

**second:**

 

the person (spider-person?) comes back a few days later. 

peter doesn’t move from the bed. he physically can’t, even if he wanted to. he curls up even deeper into the stale bedsheets and hides his face.

_ leave,  _ he wants to yell.  _ before something happens to you.  _ but all that comes out is a weak cry, and he shrinks into himself.

he feels a dip in the mattress, a hand placed gingerly onto his leg. then, the rustle of paper.

peter peeks out, eyes red. the spider-guy is there again, sitting cross-legged, waving the crumpled letter they’d delivered before. a question lingers in the air. 

“no,” peter croaks out. the figure seems to ponder this response for a moment, then nods and disappears again.

the next day, when peter finally pulls himself out of bed, he finds a sticky note glued to the barely-functional fridge.

_ chinese leftovers inside,  _ it says, in fancy handwriting. it’s signed:  _ mailman.  _ peter stares at it for at least a whole minute before opening the fridge.

 

**third:**

 

the next time the spider-person visits, they bring a pizza box with them, which is strangely on point: peter doesn’t think he’s eaten in a few days, actually.

they sit on his couch, and peter follows. it’s pepperoni pizza, which, not bad. the person doesn’t eat, not at first. then, peter reaches a slice towards them:

“you want some?”

they look at him, then after a moment nods, and grabs the slice.

they lift their mask up to their nose and take a bite.

they look like they’re too young to be a spider, but who’s he to say.

they finish the pizza and then the kid goes away again.

he throws away the box, miraculously, and when he comes back there’s another post-it there, stuck to the cracked bathroom mirror:  _ thank you,  _ it says.  _ mailman. _

 

**fourth:**

 

“how old are you?,” peter asks. 

the kid whips around; they must’ve thought peter was asleep. they’re standing on peter’s living room; he’d fallen asleep on the couch, after the reruns, and woken up to very light footsteps. 

he realizes now, in his dazed state, it must’ve been too personal of a question. he should know; he’s more closed off than a bank safe.  _ you fucked up,  _ a tiny voice in the back of his skull hisses, and he feels heavy.  _ you always do.  _

“you don’t have to answer that,” he adds, though it’s a bit too late. the kid’s all tense, stepping back, and in an instant, they’re gone.

 

**fifth:**

 

the kid comes back months later. peter isn’t aware of it when it happens, too drunk to remember the encounter when he wakes up again, but there’s a note on the fridge again. it’s an actual letter this time. peter tears the envelope open and reads.

it’s the electricity bill.

 

**sixth:**

 

the next letters are by the stove the next week. peter resists the urge to open the gas and let it run. the first two are utilities. one is from one sam wilson (he throws that one into the garbage the second he sees the stupid avengers stamp on it). one is a note written into the insides of a candy wrapper in a language he can’t read.  _ 917, _ is all it says.  _ mailman. _

  1. _what the fuck does that even mean,_ peter thinks.



 

**seventh:**

 

“that’s my age,” the kid replies. the sound of their voice (young, strangely familiar) startles peter. it’s been another week.

when he’d asked, peter didn’t really think he’d get an answer. but the kid had taken a seat on his kitchen counter, the mask’s lenses looking down. 

“you’re a thousand years old,” peter repeats. he looks at the mug he’s holding: no amount of coffee is gonna wake him up better than this. “you’re like, twelve.”

the kid shrugs. “maybe.”

he’s gone before peter can reply.

 

**eight:**

 

peter wakes up slowly, drowsily. everything feels wrong. everything feels terrible. like he’s fucked up again but his body wouldn’t let him die. again. haha.

he stays on the bathroom floor and doesn’t move. if he’s lucky, maybe this time his body will shut down, finally. realistically though, he knows it won’t happen.

there’s a flash of blue in his shower, and peter doesn’t have to look to know who it is.  _ no,  _ he thinks, somehow.  _ leave, kid.  _

but the kid doesn’t leave. he picks him up effortlessly, despite his short height and tiny build, places him on the bed. gets him a glass of water.

peter sobs.

he’s not wearing his mask, he realizes later, when all that’s left inside him is a heavy emptiness. he’s a kid. he can’t be older than 16.  he’s ben’s age . maybe the thousand years old thing is a front, maybe, or a trauma thing, but he really looks young. he still has baby fat, no stubble. his hair is long, but not that long. there’s bags under his eyes; there shouldn’t be.

and yet this fucking child is taking care of him. sitting by his side, green eyes looming over him, expression painted in concern.

“‘m sorry,” peter slurs out.

“don’t worry,” the kid whispers, his gloved fingers running through pete’s hair. “i’ve got you.”

the kid doesn’t leave. he stays, at least for a while. peter learns some things about him. he barely talks, for example. there’s a ghost behind his eyes, a cloud that comes ever so often, a strange shadow that pulls him from reality for a while. he sometimes pulls his hair up in a bun, whenever he helps with some of the more taxing stuff. (when he does, it reminds peter of venom. he doesn’t like that thought.)

they live together for a few weeks. keep each other company.  not like peter needs it.

and one evening, when peter stumbles out his room in the middle of the night for a glass of water, he catches him doing magic.

it’s an illusion of sorts. the kid is sitting on the couch, just taking it all in. there’s a kingdom he’s never seen before in his life, all golden arches and flower fields, and there’s a young man he  _ has _ seen before, bathing in the starlight. the red cape acts as a blanket, and he tells a joke peter can’t hear, but that makes the kid chuckle sadly. the world glimmers green at the edges.

“ï miss you,” the kid says. the man replies in mute words.

“kid?,” peter manages out. the illusion falls apart in seconds.

they stand there, in tense silence, for what feels like forever.

“you saw nothing,” he insists. “that was just — ”

“that was  _ thor, _ ” peter chokes out. he looks at the kid, and suddenly, it clicks. peter steps back. “you’re  _ loki. _ ”

the kid vanishes before he can finish the sentence.

peter doesn’t get any sleep that night.

 

**nine:**

 

the kid comes back the next day. “i’m sorry for leaving,” he says. he’s staring at his feet the whole time.

peter shrugs. “sorry i freaked you out,” he tells him back.

loki doesn’t move from the bedroom doorframe. “i understand,” he mutters, “if you don’t want me to come around anymore. i am aware that other lokis aren’t always very nice.”

peter thinks about his loki. about his murder sprees, his brother’s blood on him. “ _ i’m  _ not very nice,” he says instead. “but you still hang out around me.”

“you’re alright,” loki says, and peter almost smiles.

he goes away a while after that, but leaves a note behind.

_ thank you, pete. loki. _

 

**ten:**

 

“what’s this?,” peter asks. there’s an invite on loki’s hands. he pushes it into pete’s hands and smiles nervously.

“i’m making a club,” he says. there’s an excitement in his voice pete has never heard before from him. the way he fidgets reminds him of  _ no don’t think about it _ . “would you like to join?”

_ not really,  _ peter thinks.  _ i wanna stay in here and die.  _ “what kind of club,” he says instead.

“a fight club.”

peter almost blanches. “no,” he says. “you’re a  _ kid. _ ”

“a half-asgardian, half-frost giant, spider-powered, dimension-hopping kid,” loki deadpans. “come on! i’m stronger than you. i’m not even gonna fight!”

“nope. we’re not doing this.”

“well,  _ i’m  _ doing it, with or without you.” 

“fine.”

“fine!”

 

**eleven:**

 

loki comes back that same evening.

“i made the fight club,” he says, smug.

“okay,” peter says.

“okay?”

“yeah. okay.”

loki sleeps over that night.

the next morning, over breakfast (shitty knock-off cereal), loki asks, “would you come with me?”

“where?”

“the fight club.”

“why?”

loki stares at his bowl.

“well?”

“we need friends, man.”

so they go to the fight club.

 

**twelve:**

 

loki isn’t there when he wakes up, body aching, back home. 

he doesn’t even wanna move from the bed when he hears the telltale footsteps.

“so?”

peter groans. “you’re insane.”

“uh, yeah,” peter can feel the grin on loki’s face and he’s not even looking, “i sure hope i am.”

“god.”

“Uh, Yeah, I Sure Hope — ”

“i get it. okay. i get it. i’m not that old.”

“so?”

“so what?”

“how do you feel?”

“everything hurts.”

“i mean, yeah, but did you like it?”

“...”

“hm?”

“yeah.”


	4. you look so cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FOUR:  
> mailman's story.
> 
> (originally written on feb 7th 2019)

you look so cold.

asgard’s falling apart, and you stand on the ruins, shivering. you don’t care. the world is crumbling around you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you’re just nine hundred years old, and you can’t care about your home’s last stand.

 

it starts on midgard.

you’re hiding in a group of human teenagers. according to sif, there’s a kree informant around this facility; you should meet him soon, if everything goes according to plan.

“peter, stay close,” an adult human (the  _ teacher _ , you recall) beckons you. your name isn’t peter. the human child named peter is home sick. you obey, anyway; you have to wait.

you go through ‘elevators’ and ‘labs’ and eventually decide this isn’t working out. you let your illusion of peter follow the rest of the children while you look for the informant yourself.

you go through ‘labs’ and ‘labs’ and ‘labs’ and end up inside a strange facility. there’s glass cages ( _ like father’s dungeons _ , you think, suddenly still) all filled with strange critters.  _ spiders,  _ you remember. beautiful, small spiders. you look at one, all alone, and your heart twists strangely.

then the door opens. the intruder  _ (no, wait, that’s you) _

the  _ scientist  _ that enters the room can’t see you. you’ve turned invisible, leaning back deeper against the crystal. the human is followed by someone else, and upon seeing him, you know: it’s the kree you were supposed to be meeting.

“he’s here,” the kree says, and you feel a chill run down your spine, “we just have to find him.”

the man doesn’t reply, looks over his shoulder. they’re hiding something, you realize. “if he gets away, it’s both of us who’re gonna die,” he hisses. “he can’t leave the building alive.”

“obviously.” the kree paces around the room. “if we kill loki, we’ll be war heroes. we’ll  _ win  _ the war.”

you stumble back. it’s only a step, but the glass cage crashes down and breaks apart. you bite your lip and stay still, trying your hardest to remain unnoticed.

“shit,” the human says. “we need to get out of here.”

“has he been here this whole time?”

you slowly, excruciatingly slowly, head to the door. it slides open and you start running.

you mingle with the kids again. it’s like nothing’s even happened. you feel, maybe, a strange sensation on the back of your neck, under ‘peter’’s hooded sweater, as if your brother has snuck a wheat spike into your clothes again, but it’s probably nothing, and you ignore it amidst your terror.

you return home. you tell thor: “the kree are working for laufey”. you let him hold you, tell you tales of his battle of the day. later, he’ll tell father the news, and hela will scowl; later, when you’re asleep, they’ll re-adjust their allegiances. 

and then, after your mother’s tucked you into bed (despite your father’s annoyance) you see, under the amber glow of the lamps outside his room, as something crawls up your arm.

it’s the spider: black, blue, golden.

before you can react, its fangs have sunken into the back your hand. you draw in a breath, hold in your screams. the pain lasts a second and, for a moment, you swear you catch a glimpse of somewhere that’s not asgard.

(you wonder if you should tell anyone.)

(you shrug it off. you’re a god, after all; some midgardian critter can’t possibly hurt you.)

your sleep is restless, that night.

 

(you dream.

in your dream, you’re hanging from the bifrost, hands in pain from the deadly frost. asgard is in flames. thor reaches his hand down, towards you; you try to catch him, but you fall instead into the void.

you look so cold.)

 

you wake up and the world is too loud.

in fact, the only reason you’re up at all is because  _ thor _ is shaking you awake from your nightmare.

when you finally compose yourself enough (to cast an illusion upon yourself, so that your brother can’t see how scared you really are), he tells you to take your time, as if he can see right through your tricks, (you want to ask him to lower his voice because his booming is unbearably deafening today, but) he ruffles your hair and leaves.

you let the illusion fall. 

it’s only when you try to follow, moments later, that you realize: you’re stuck to the bed.

you pull at the silk bedsheets.

they stick to your fingertips, as if sewn to them.

your heartbeat quickens.

if you take too long, father will send someone to get you.

you try to—

unstick. 

how did this even happen, anyway. 

carefully, you peel off your fingers, one by one, out of the bed. 

you’re shivering again. 

goodness. this can’t be good. 

you wonder if father will notice if you send a copy of yourself for breakfast. 

(he will, you know this as a fact. he will notice, and then his voice will boom your name, and mother will laugh, and thor will begrudgingly come hide you before father can find you.)

you make your way to the bath. (when you tap lightly at the water controls, you leave a crack on the surface.)

(even for an asgardian, this feels a bit excessive.)

during the meal, you accidentally snap your fork in half. hela makes fun of you, light-hearted; you resist the urge to shout at her. you excuse yourself as soon as you’re done and lock yourself in your room. 

you can hear thor’s heavy steps through the corridor, five floors above. you can hear father’s hushed whispers, sif’s laughter, brunnhilde and hela’s conversation about war and peace and  _ oh they’re being disgusting now _ . you can hear even the breathing of thor’s friends, downstairs, and the rustle of the leaves of the trees outside is driving you insane.   
at least the light isn’t that unbearable.

(you have them all off.)

(and the windows are slammed shut.)

(and yet you can see as clearly as if it were a sunny morning outside.)

_ this is a nightmare,  _ you tell yourself.  _ i’m certainly dreaming.  _ if you go to bed, you’ll surely wake up again. (your thoughts, have they always been this loud?)

you wash your face. you force yourself back into bed. you rip your hand off from the bed’s gold frame, try to stop them from shaking— what is wrong with you? what is going on? 

(you were never normal. you were never  _ just  _ loki. but this is even worse now.)

you close your eyes shut and try not to panic. 

 

you must’ve fallen asleep again, because you wake as thor leaves your room. it’s darker outside, thankfully, but everything is just too noisy anyway, perhaps even more than before.

“thor?,” you croak out.

“rest,” he says, in what you know is a whisper but is still too loud for you. “it will be okay.”

“you’re too loud,” you whimper.

“i know. i’m sorry.” his voice is even lower now. 

“i feel terrible.”

“i know.”

you hear him turn the doorknob and your stomach twists; you can feel the grating of the wood against the marble floor and you gasp.

“something bit me, thor,” you confess. he stops, halfway out the door, but doesn’t move. “when i was on midgard.”

you hear him come closer. “what happened? what  _ really  _ happened?”

“you can’t tell father. he already—” ( _ thinks you a monster. an abomination. _ ) 

“i certainly won’t,” your brother says. 

you swear you see him smile through the darkness. he’s trying. he’s trying so hard.

you remember: you and your brother, hiding together after playing a prank on your sister. you and your brother, always together. he’d never hurt you, you think.  even after all the stabbing.

still, you say, “promise?”, because you’re scared, and who can blame you?

and thor holds your hand. you feel the callouses in his palm, the roughness of his fingers. it’s comforting, somehow.

“promise,” he says.

 

so thor knows. 

things go on, for a while. in secret, you two figure your newfound powers out. you pace the walls, the high ceilings; you finally,  _ finally  _ beat thor in hand-to-hand combat (brunn can’t stop laughing about it for days, much to your brother’s chagrin). 

you understand now, how to stick and  _ un _ stick. you just need to calm down, that is all. you think of your mother’s voice, of the smell of the royal library, and soon, you’re no longer glued to the chandelier, or to the top of the bookshelf. 

things are okay for a while. father plans for the war, and you all fight it. 

 

“you’re different,” hela says. 

you don’t look at her. you know it’s pointless, trying to lie to her; even you, god of lies, can’t beat death herself. “i am.”

“i see.” she closes her book, stands up from her seat in the library. “who else knows?”

“thor.” you set yours aside, finally raising your eyes to meet hers. “no one else.”

“good,” she says. “father wouldn’t react well to more unstable children with far too much power.” she looks at her own hands. instinctively, you know what she cannot tell you. what she cannot ever tell thor. or anyone. “you’re smarter than i gave you credit for.”

you’d scoff if you weren’t this worried about the future. “i might be young, but i’m not dumb. i know,” and your voice lowers, “what he does to monsters.”

(thor’s hammer, a barrier once limitless, a weight he does not know he carries. hela’s hands, forever binded by cursed bracelets.)

you know what father does to children with too much power. 

“don’t worry,” she tells you. her haunted smile, for once, reaches her eyes. “your secret is safe, with me.”

“i know,” you reply. but three can keep a secret if two are dead. 

she leaves the library. you pick up your book and try to act as if the pages aren’t sticking to your fingertips. 

 

your brother and you lay down on the fields near the city. you feel the grass, the fresh summer breeze; gaze at the stars and feel relieved.

thor’s just come back from a long battle in svartalfheim, months and months away from home. you’ve missed him  terribly . you wish you could’ve gone with him; you’re stronger, got tricks under your sleeve, but thor had argued that perhaps it would reveal you too much. so you’d stayed, reluctantly, back home, planning and planning for battles present and future and thinking about the way you could see more stars now, more than ever before, but you couldn’t see your brother,  and it hurt you very deeply . 

but now he’s back. the kree, placated for now. and you two lay on the flower fields, laughing at his terrible jokes, and nothing could ever ruin this. 

“i missed you,” you say, suddenly. your eyes water. “i missed you so much.”

his gaze softens. “oh, loki.”

“i know it’s silly,” you insist. the tears won’t stop falling. you rub at your eyes, but they just won’t stop. “i was scared.”

thor holds you close. “it’s okay,” he whispers. “i’m okay. i’m here. i’m not going anywhere.”

you know he’s telling the truth. still, you hold on tight and try to bury your fears. 

“there’s no time for us,“ thor whispers then. you don’t recognize it at first, but he’s singing. you’ve never heard the song. “there’s no place for us.”

_ what is this thing that builds our dreams _

_ yet slips away from us? _

_ who wants to live forever? _

_ who wants to live forever? _

you don’t ask where he learnt it; you already know. sometimes, he’ll sing to you some strange midgardian melody he’s learned during his travels, and you’ll mock it and his odd tastes, but you’ll secretly hold the songs close to heart. 

you try not to cry anymore, and you fall asleep on the field. 

 

(you dream.

in your dream, you’re standing on the flower field. thor is right behind you, he’ll catch up any second now. you run through the field, hands shaking. all you hear is noise. you can’t find your brother anywhere. 

you look so cold.)

 

that night, dark elves invade asgard. 

it takes everyone by surprise. even you, as you wake up in thor’s arms; even you, as he carries you inside in a hurry. 

it’s a nightmare, you think, at least at first. but then you see father, holding your mother’s body close, and you see the tears running down hela’s face, and you’ve never seen her cry before, as she puts on her helmet. 

“i’m going,” you say. you don’t sound like you, you think. gravelly, thor nods; he summons mjolnir and hopes it’ll be enough. he knows he can’t stop you, not here, not now. 

you open the palace doors. you, together, lead the army outside. 

it’s the dark elves. it’s the kree. it’s laufey, thinking he’s won. 

(you think of the spider. black, blue, gold.)

you put on your helmet, hands shaking, and charge into battle. 

 

thor.

you hold him, hands shaking. you do not care if you stick to his wounds. you do not care if you can’t focus on the battle still raging around you; you do not hear hela’s shouts, heimdall’s struggle, not even sif’s or hogun’s fall. 

you hold your brother and wail. 

 

there’s a blue flash. everything is cold, cold as jotunheim, but not as cold as your brother’s dead body. no, not as cold as him. jotunheim doesn’t know hell; they haven’t seen it, haven’t lived it. 

you see your mother’s corpse. you see brunn, bloody; a blast to the head. you see hela, heimdall, sif and thor’s friends; you see your brother, and then a blue flash. 

grief wrecks you. apparently, it does more than that to you. 

when you finally come to your senses, asgard is desolate. 

it is littered with corpses. asgardian, kree, jotunn; your despair-consumed self had not cared for them. no, you had not. you wander through the battlefield, through the familiar streets of your childhood, through the frozen, burnt flower fields; you find your mother’s body, and you find your father’s not too far away, and for a moment you wonder if you ended his life.

you look so cold.

asgard’s falling apart, and you stand on the ruins, shivering. for once, the cold should bother you. you don’t care. the world is crumbling around you, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

you’re just nine hundred years old, and you can’t care about your home’s last stand, not when your family is dead and you’re all alone. 

 

god, you’re all alone. and it’s all your fault. 

 

maybe you went on a few planet-ending sprees, you hear. 

you’re stealing food from a refueling station in the nova empire when you overhear a conversation. they’re talking about the massacre of jotunheim; of three of the asgardian realms. the death of a few civilizations. the titan-like being that came down upon them, single-handedly destroying the land in a matter of days. 

you know, instinctively, it’s you they’re talking about. you have no recalling of these massacres, but you  _ know _ .

you leave the store with an energy bar and try not to cry.

 

you wake up to a blue light.

you’re dreaming, perhaps. you fall through the universe. sometimes, after a blue spark of light, you’ll find yourself staring at a different cosmos. it’s strange, disorientating, and it hurts badly, but you can’t seem to stop.

it feels like centuries pass like that.

you’re dreaming, perhaps.

 

until you aren’t. 

you wake up to a young man you’ve seen before. logically, you know where you are.

you shouldn’t be here.

you’re too dangerous.

“are you okay?,” peter asks.

you try to step back, but there’s a blue flash, and everything hurts. and another. and another.

peter tries to hold you still. he’s angry, now. you’ve upset him. were his eyes always this green? weren’t they blue, just a moment ago?

a blue flash. his hair is red, and he jerks away from you. “what the fuck,” he says.

a blue flash. you’re alone again, drifting in space.

_ no,  _ you think, suddenly.  _ no.  _ you don’t want to be alone.

you deserve it, surely, but you don’t want any more of this.

 

a blue flash.

 

“please, loki, talk to us.”

you don’t move. you don’t look at the man in front of you; he’s not your brother. you’ve learned this the hard way. if you look up, you’ll see the microscopic differences; the way his eyes are just a shade off, or the way he holds himself, or just how he hesitates around you, as if he’s scared of you. 

you see the other avengers behind him. you see stark, this time not a crazed madman but a scientist; you see the captain, this time not a dead man but just a trauma-ridden one. 

you can’t help but chuckle. you curl into yourself, the couch way too soft for you, and shrink into the blankets they’ve put on your shoulders. “what do you want me to say,” you croak out.

“i don’t know. anything. what happened to you? who did this to you?”

_ i did. _

you don’t reply.

“this is the longest i’ve managed so far,” you whisper instead. it’s only been a few hours.

and then, as if you’ve jinxed it, somehow, you find yourself falling away once more.

you can’t control it. you can’t. it’s a terrible power, a curse; you can feel yourself tearing apart and reassembling every time it happens, and it’s as if you’re sneezing, you can’t stop yourself.

you want it to stop. 

 

but you can’t.

 

so you fall.

it’s cold.

you’re dreaming, perhaps.


	5. why no one ever comes back with details from beyond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FIVE:  
> in which i am a terrible person.
> 
> (originally written on march 4th 2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stella, briefly mentioned here, belongs to [rocky boo, the love of my life.](https://www.pinterest.com/fwaproductions/)

loki feels so cold. he’s having a hard time breathing, resting against the wall. his head feels dizzy. 

there’s footsteps around, heavy thuds; they quickly turn rushed, and he finds someone holding him, checking him over. he tries to push them away, but he can’t find the strength to do so. he feels so tired.

“loki,” someone breathes out. he knows the voice, he thinks. there’s a thick fog obscuring his thoughts, so he isn’t exactly sure until he opens his eyes.

“dad,” he mumbles. everything is exhausting, for some reason. everything hurts. he’s aware he’s bleeding out; he hadn’t expected laufey, not again. “you’re here.”

“don’t talk,” peter says. he thinks he sees him crying. he’s not very sure. “you’ll be okay. you’ll be okay.”

“dad, i’m sorry.”

“don’t talk, loki.”

loki knows he won’t get another chance to say it.

“i’m… i’m glad,” he manages. “i got to meet you.”

“stop.” 

“don’t cry.” loki tries to reach for his hand. “please.”

“you’re going to be okay. just- just focus, okay? focus. look at me.”

“i’m sorry,” he repeats. “it’s okay.”

peter chokes on a sob. “please, hold on. please. i can’t… i can’t lose you.”

“i’m right here,” he tries to say, but his voice dies mid-sentence. a coughing fit follows.

peter holds him, hands shaking. he does not care if he sticks to his wounds. he does not care if he can’t focus on the battle still raging around them. he’s vaguely aware of jim’s shouts, of the kids holding off the invading army; he can’t bring himself to care, at the moment, on anything besides loki’s shivering frame.

“please,” he begs someone, anyone, and no one at the same time. “please.”

loki raises a blood-stained hand to his face, trying to- what  _ is  _ he trying to do, wipe off his tears? all he leaves is a crimson trail on his cheekbones, and oh god he’s holding his son as he dies again, and he can’t, he can’t-

“i’m sorry,” loki says again, one final time. “i didn’t want it to be like this.”

“fuck,” peter cries out. “help! someone!”

by the time stella finds them through the chaos, he’s been trying to bring him back for a whole five minutes.

 

“loki,” someone whispers.

he can’t see. well, not a lot. it’s mostly shapes, blurred messes. but he can tell who it is.

it should bring him joy, to finally see thor again, but all it makes him want to do is sob.

“thor,” he stutters, “i need to go back.”


	6. my feet don't dance like they did with you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SIX:  
> gwen finds a friend in a tough spot.
> 
> (originally written on march 14th 2019)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rio (NOT RIO MORALES) is my baby girl. her world is a couple hundred years in the future, fighting an alien invasion. her cousin, peter, died protecting her from an attack the same night she got her powers.

often, rio wakes up alone. 

it’s on cold nights when it hits her the hardest: the way her tiny bunk bed isn’t cramped anymore, the way she can’t feel familiar fingers running through her hair any longer. 

sometimes she lays back down in bed and sobs. she allows herself this, her moment of weakness, when no one can see, when no one can hear.  _ it’s okay, _ she tells herself then. as long as no one knows, it’s okay. 

sometimes she locks herself in the bathroom and refuses to come out. sometimes she just can’t speak, can’t bring herself to say anything at all, not even commands, and what kind of team leader can’t lead? she’d have known what to say; she’d have nudged her into the right words, just a glance into her eyes and the sentences that too often lost her suddenly became clear. she’s a jumbled mess, she can’t concentrate, and it’s harley, it’s riri, it’s miles who pay the price. 

( _ peter was a better leader _ , she thinks, sometimes. he was born for this.  _ i should have saved him _ , she thinks, sometimes. she wishes he still were here to tell her war stories, to beat her at mario kart 50, to talk to her, tell her what to do, something,  _ anything,  _ but god, she’s already mourning, she does  _ not  _ have time to unpack all that, if she does she might as well let go while swinging and become a night blue splat on concrete and neon alike.)

sometimes she walks through the ceilings, chasing someone who’s no longer there down the thin hallways of her complex. she waltzes on the walls, and if she’s exhausted enough, if she’s drunk enough, she can feel her hands on her hips when she sways up the stairs, can hear a hint of her laughter echo throughout the empty corridors, can taste the ghost of her lipstick smearing on her own leaning on one wall. mary jane often finds her, frantic, on rising suns and gray rooftops; she finds her, a pack of beers she shouldn’t have empty by her feet, as she dances her sorrows away. 

those are the hardest nights, rio thinks. she breaks down every time, crumbling into mj’s embrace as she walks her back in, and it feels silly, it feels stupid, she should not feel this way for a dead girl, not anymore, when she’s been gone for months and would not want her to mourn and  _ oh  _ has she mourned her! has she felt herself rip apart at the seams, has she felt the crushing cold eating at her heart, has she cried herself to sleep and has she hurt herself and hurt others, too many, too much!

and sometimes she does not wanna stay anymore and sometimes she just lashes out and runs off and doesn’t return for days and then she has to deal with the stares from her team, or worse, the  _ lack  _ of. 

those are the hardest nights, rio thinks. 

this is one of those nights. 

she tiptoes on the edge, knowing she’ll catch herself if she falls, knowing they can’t afford to lose her even if all she wants is to be home again, humming softly to the tune on the old stereo she’s beat up and fixed way too many times. she hears the door open, and she doesn’t turn, doesn’t even look, before laughing. 

“we can’t keep doing this, mj,” she sings. “we can’t, it’s just  _ not healthy for you _ ,” but then she twirls, and in her daze opens her eyes and her heart stops. 

gwen is standing on the doorway, dressed in a tank top and hot pink shorts, a band-aid on her skinned knee, dark bags under her eyes, holding a bag of chips and a bottle of off-brand soda, looking as beautiful as the day she’d—

it takes her five seconds to realize she’s not  _ her  _ gwen. there’s the uncanny valley, the fuzziness around her edges, the differences no one else would be able to find. ( _ no one but her, she knows this as a fact, no one knew what she knew about gwen and it broke her if she thought about it too hard— _ )

“what are you doing here,” she breathes.

“it’s movie night,” gwen says. she looks like she’d rather eat alien meat than be here. “stella— she asked me to get you.”

_ movie night.  _ of course she forgot. this is reason number two she doesn’t make a good leader, see, she’s forgetful, way too clumsy, how could she forget? “i’m sorry,” she says, and she means it, though maybe the slur in her voice makes her hard to believe. “i don’t think i can make it tonight.”

“it’s okay,” gwen says. she steps closer, and closer, before plopping down on the floor and sighing. “so what exactly is it you’re doing?,” she asks, as if it isn’t obvious. 

and rio wants to tell her that, voice filled with poison and snark, but she doesn’t. she just can’t say no to her, can’t be cruel, not to her, not when she’s just like  _ her,  _ and so she tells her. “dancing away the pain, baby.”

“oh.” gwen nods. “that’s fair.” she places down the food, pats at the floor. “wanna eat something?”

she just can’t say no to her, see. 

they eat the chips in silence, drink the cola straight from the bottle. it’s refreshing after the rum, she guesses. gwen talks about home, about her band, about  _ mary jane stole my nail polish again, i swear, i will kill her,  _ and rio can’t help but laugh, to feel secure, to feel, to an extent, at home. 

(it’s not home and she knows it, not really. home is softer, tender, unattainable. home is ashes inside a jar inside a box glowing pink under captain stacy’s bed. home is dead.)

“hey,” she says, suddenly, standing up. there’s a hint of alcohol in her breath, a bit of a stumble to her step, but she still says the words, before she loses the courage to get them out. “dance with me, gwennie.”

and gwen can’t say no to her, either. she stands up, holds her gingerly, and she’s feeling this weird deja vu; gwen leads, unlike the someone rio used to know, and they sway in place, the song drowning out the silence between them. 

“i’ve been so worried 'bout you lately,” gwen says, then, whispered into the crevice of her shoulder. “i know things have been hard—”

“that’s an understatement,” rio chuckles. 

“— _ but, _ you have us.” gwen holds on tighter to her, and someone might have said she was dancing with a ghost, and maybe rio’s trying not to think about how she did it before. “you have us, and we’re not going anywhere.”

(and rio has to remind herself, yet again: this isn’t home. home is dead, gwen stacy is dead, long live gwen stacy, home is dead, home is neon ashes and empty beds and broken shards of a coffee mug and a boy in a coma.)

“you can’t know that,” the pessimist in her says. 

“maybe not,” gwen agrees. “but won’t stop me from trying.”

“why?” she doesn’t look at her. if she did, she’d probably just burst into flames. “i’m not— i’m— i can handle myself.”

“and that’s why you’re dancing drunk in a rooftop at two a.m. all alone every other night.”

“don’t call me out like this.”

“i care about you,” gwen says. “i care about you a lot. maybe not in the way other-me did it,” and rio suddenly can’t breathe again, “but i love you, and want you to be okay again, rio.”

(it’s not home, it’s not home, it’s not, it’s not—)

her hands tremble within gwen’s and her feet hurt and they lay down and watch the starless sky; light pollution sucks in her world. and gwen doesn’t let go of her hand. not even when she starts crying, not even when she spills her whole being to this stranger with a face she could draw with her eyes closed, and they stay like that as the sun rises over the neon and the movie night is forgotten. 

rio wakes up in her bed, it’s hours past her alarm, and gwen’s on the couch, texting on her phone before getting up. she catches rio’s gaze and smiles. “see you around,” she says, and in a blink she’s gone through a portal and she’s all alone in a house that doesn’t feel okay to her anymore. 

(but for the first time in ages, rio sleeps a full eight hours, and secretly, gwen thanks stella for letting her visit.)


	7. it's raining knives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEVEN:   
> three peters get wasted and talk about trauma.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the peters in question:  
> a (point of view - pete) - assassin pete. he's. hes an assassin   
> b - peter b parker  
> c - maybe-pete from a few chapters ago  
> peter - an Evil, No Good, Horrible Peter Parker.  
> all of em belong to el, except, you know. b. because he's canon.
> 
> also when i mean trauma i mean like. it's Nasty. tread lightly.

usually, being here makes pete feel at least a bit better, especially after being with peter for a while, but he guesses today’s just one of those “bad days” everyone always talks about.

peter b and peter c aren’t talking, either. he supposes it’s a bad day for them, too; they’re not even getting high today. they’re passing around this bottle of vodka b brought with him and staring at the ceiling. it’s supposed to be three weeks clean for c, too, if he recalls correctly, but he’s not one to judge.

pete reaches out for the bottle. he takes a swig, his first of the day; it runs down his parched tongue, burns his throat pleasantly. he’d missed this. two weeks at peter’s had taken its toll on him, he realizes now.

the hours go by like that, quietly. they empty the bottle soon enough, and c ends up opening his secret stash. “does your kid know about that?,” b asks, half heartedly, when he moves the loose tile from the bathroom wall. c just looks away, shrugs. so that’s probably a no. 

the new stuff is stronger, harsher. pete doesn’t think regular people could take much of it, but when have they ever been regular? he downs the liquor first, then passes it over to b while trying not to cough it all out. ”that’s good,” he grunts out.

“yeah,” b says. “man, where did you get this stuff?”

c shuffles, uncomfortable, for a moment. “long story,” he says. “doc ock used it on me.”

“oh,” b says. he promptly chugs at the bottle. “you wanna talk about that?”

“no, but i’m gonna.” he takes the bottle and swigs. 

“okay.”

“so basically my doc ock had a torture phase. and she- i guess she had a thing for hurting me.” c sighs, looking away from them. “and my kids.”

“oh, same. my doc ock went a bit crazy with me.” b chuckles, but it feels empty. not that pete would say it out loud. “wanna see my scars?”

“not really.”

“fair enough.”

c laughs. stares at the bottle. “kid’s gonna kill me.”

“can’t be worse than liv.”

“cheers, bro. i’ll drink to that.”

they chuckle, pass the bottle around, and pete tunes out of the conversation. 

 

it’s later, when b shakes him back to reality, that pete realizes he’d been spacing out. 

the two of them had spent all evening talking about their traumas; they’d compared wounds, marks faded by time, emotions still fresh. c had recounted, in shaky breaths, how he’d killed his octavius, and how he’d cradled the body of his son until the avengers had ripped them apart, and b had said nothing, nothing, too haunted by his own memories of the place. 

“mine died later,” he utters out, eyes lost into space, “of old age.”

pete guesses that’s even worse. the impunity; knowing someone hurt you and no one did anything to stop it. 

knowing you were hurt and no one did anything to stop it.

“you’ve been real quiet, man.” pete doesn’t look at b as he speaks. “something on your mind?”

pete hums. “sorry,” he says. his voice sounds so thin. “just thinking.”

“was it something we said? sorry about that.”

“you wanna talk about it?,” c suggests. he looks even more exhausted than usual.

pete doesn’t reply. 

he toys with the hem of his shirt, hesitant, as the other two watch.

 

and then.

he pulls it off as fast as he can.

 

“shit,” b says.

“what the fuck, dude.”

the second they start walking towards pete he recoils, steps back. they stop immediately. “it’s nothing, okay,” he says. “it’s alright.”

“it’s not- are you kidding me? when did that happen?”

no reply.

“a,” b starts again, carefully. c watches it all happen in tense silence. “when did you get those.”

pete doesn’t meet their gaze.

(peter would laugh at him, gleefully. he’d spin him around, push him into the next chamber, nothing behind his empty eyes. “next time, look me in the eye”. and pete would.)

“can we not do this,” he pushes out. “please.”

“no. we’re  _ doing  _ this. you’re  _ going  _ through this and- and if we can stop it-.”

“i’ll get in trouble, please.”

“who’s doing this?” c’s finally talking again. he looks… angry? really angry. pete doesn’t think he’s ever seen him like that. when he doesn’t reply, he presses. “pete, who’s doing this to you.”

“peter.”

“yes?”

“no, i mean- shit. it’s- peter asked me if- if i could help him out. it’s fine. it’s fine! i- i heal fast, and he’s… he’s nice to me, okay?”

he moves away from the others. “shit, pete.” b looks so stressed out right now. “a  _ peter  _ is doing this? how long’s this been going on?”

“a while,” pete says. “can we change the subject.”

it’s just one of those bad days, pete guesses. 

he tries not to think about peter’s hands all over him, tries to ignore the way his body goes still when peter comes near. he puts his shirt back on and gets another bottle.

 

a doesn’t come to their next hangout.

or the next.

when he comes back, three weeks later, he won’t look them in the eye.


End file.
